Love Is For A Beggar
by battyderp
Summary: Marius Pontmercy may hold her heart, but when it matters most, Éponine knows that there is only one she can always turn to, one that knows who she is and accepts it. One-shot. Semi-sequal to 'I'm Your Secret, You're My Worst Friend'.


_A/N: Another long one from me ahaha! So, first off, I'd just like to say a huge thanks to everyone that has sent me love for my last Éponasse fic! That means the absolute world to me, you have no idea. In relation to that, if anyone hasn't read that one and is starting with this one instead, that's totally fine – it's definitely not a necessity that you read them in order to understand what's going on. It's simply that there are a few references to the last one buried in here, so if you'd like to understand more, then check 'em out. There will be another one after this, so this is smack-bang in the middle, number two, the first being 'I'm Your Secret, You're My Worst Friend'. Ahem._

_That said, I hope you enjoy, and review if you like, my loves! They make my life ahaha. I own nothing but the fic, and hopefully nothing is too horribly ooc. I'm always paranoid about that. C:_

_xx_

Night was swiftly closing in; the birds were singing their last tunes in the fading light, and yet Montparnasse had long since lost the ability to enjoy their cheerful music – to this young man that spent his entire life in the shadows, they sounded solemn and hollow and haunting. _Empty._ Once, as a child, he had taken great pleasure in listening to their sweet melodies before sleeping, for they had seemed to wash away his troubles for as long as their beaks remained open. When they had closed once more, he had been flung back into his life as a street urchin in training to be an assassin. Once they stopped singing, so had the goodness in his heart. So he ceased to listen. It was not fair to feel hope and warmth radiating within, only to become cold after they fell silent.

The way he saw it, you were either good, or you were bad. He was bad, and he accepted that. But that damn Éponine made no sense. Was she pure of heart, or was she one of them? Could she be both? Could he? No. That was exactly why he found it far better to merely not question things: to avoid mind-numbing confusion that only ended in pain and dis-contempt.

Night was his time; it reflected his soul. He could see better in the dark that in the day. Rounding a corner where a beggar sat sleeping, Montparnasse paused and briefly considered dropping a sous in the poor man's cap; after a moment of contemplation, he shook his head with a snort of irritation and continued on his way. If the man thought himself above sinking to the level of crook, where at least the money was, for the most part, enough to live on, then he could starve for all 'Parnasse cared.

Babet, Claquesous and Guelemer were expecting him for a break-in at midnight; the older men would handle the stealing, whilst Montparnasse was entrusted to keep a lookout for the sleeping owner, and to slit his throat as quietly as he could manage if the need arose. The thought of this no longer stirred a single ounce or guilt or regret in his heart. In their place, it provoked a feeling more akin to anticipation. He was well past the point of caring. Caring made you weak.

It was at that moment that Montparnasse caught sight of a shuddering girl that had curled up into a tight ball, rocking back and forth beside a bench in the park where darkness gathered – beside, not on. She was still seated on the grass, her chin tucked into her knees, choking back her sobs. As he passed by, Montparnasse scarcely spared her a look; just another crying gamin that couldn't handle her situation. But then his eyes found her scrawny shoulders, scraggly dark hair, the rags she wore in place of a chemise and skirt, and he blinked. "'Ponine," he breathed, stopping abruptly. Too absorbed in her tears, she didn't notice him, didn't look up.

He would never hear the end of it from Babet if he missed the job – not to mention the fact he would miss out on a good haul from the bourgeois gent. Raising his chin resolutely, Montparnasse willed his feet to walk, expecting to continue on his way without a second thought. But he could not move. He tried again – nothing. Gritting his teeth, he glanced back over to Éponine. The moon rising behind her cast half of her in shadow, the rest in a silvery light. It made her hair and skin glisten strangely, considering the hideous amount of dirt piled on.

Digging his cane into the soft ground as far as it would go, he imagined this was a dagger slicing into someone's flesh – in other words, to let out his frustration before he dared approach the girl, not wishing to harm her. That done, Montparnasse hesitantly lowered his polished shoe onto the grass, cringing inwardly, before making his way gracefully across the lawn, following the cleanest path as possible until he was looming directly above her.

"Move up to the bench," he grumbled, his intended strong-willed order coming out sounding more like that of a moping, exasperated teenage boy. When Éponine snapped her head up abruptly, she sucked in a startled breath at the sight of the dangerous silhouette; then her eyes travelled over his body, and her shoulders relaxed. In a sudden moment of panic, she wiped at her face desperately to clear it of all traces of tears, before glaring up at Montparnasse defiantly. It soon became apparent that she had no intention of shifting, so he tapped his cane against the bench and growled, "I'm not stainin' my trousers with mud. So either you move up to the bench, or I leave."

For a second, she looked as though she were going to question him, and he readied himself to snap at her and stalk away. But then Éponine nodded – "Oh" – and clawed her way up, using the slats of wood as support but still staggering a little, disoriented as she was by her over-powering emotions. Holding out his free hand with a stony expression, Montparnasse waited for her to accept his offer before helping her stand.

"Thanks, Monsieur," she muttered, turning her shoulder to him as soon as she was seated, drawing her hands up to rub her forearms self-consciously. "Now leave me be. Please." 'Parnasse quirked an eyebrow; he was accustomed to being the one to batter her with sarcasm and bitter remarks, not the other way around. She was usually over the moon to see a friendly face – and though he denied it to even himself, it did make him feel indescribably better to spend a little time with her. The last time he had seen her had been her first night out of jail – it had been innocent, but heavenly all the same. This time, however, he had a feeling would be an exception to the rule.

"Not happy to see me, 'Ponine?" he asked, leaning on the backrest of the bench and using his other hand to softly run a finger down her grubby cheek, now cleansed by the salty water that had leaked from her eyes. At first, a slight whimper escaped her lips and she leaned into his touch, before her gaze hardened and she swatted him away, proudly averting his incredulous look.

Montparnasse chuckled slyly. Skirting around her with the elegant ease of a creature of the night, he took his place close beside her; comfortable enough around each other as they were, they had long since dispersed with petty customs: no more bowing, no more curtsying, and no more personal space. "What's got you so down, my dear?" he leaned over to murmur in her ear. His eyes had ceased flashing at the sight of someone in pain; now they were softer, yet there was still that spark of coldness that forever lurked within.

"None of your business, 'Parnasse," she retorted, once more turning away decisively, still sniffling grumpily.

Now his patience was growing perilously thin. He sneered at the back of her head, rolling his eyes, before forcing a charming smile. Gently, tenderly, he clasped his fingers around her arm and drew her back around to face him; she put up no fight, thought there was still a wild light in her miserable gaze that was usually creased by a teasing smile. "C'mon, 'Ponine," he purred, though there was an edge to his voice. "You wound me. You know you can tell my anything. I gave up a robbery to comfort you and now you're givin' me nothing. Now, how is that fair, hm?"

"You're too good to me," she replied bitterly; Éponine attempted to snatch her arm back out of his grip, but it was unrelenting and he simply smiled down at her calmly. Finally, she gave up and slouched back on the bench.

"You know I'm not," Montparnasse muttered, half to himself.

At that, 'Ponine let out a wail and threw herself at the young dandy, tucking her hands into his redingote in order to cling to him, burying her face in his chest. At first, Montparnasse was startled, grimacing at the prospect of a ruined waistcoat that he had gone to such lengths to secure, before he let out a quiet sigh and wrapped his arms around her shivering body. She drew her knees up, and in turn he rearranged his worn, black greatcoat so it acted as a blanket for the poor Thénardier girl. "Kinder than Monsieur Marius!" she cried, absent-mindedly kneeing him rather violently in the thigh. He thought nothing of it, simply tightened his grip on her. Perhaps it was painful, but he did not have much experience in comfort. Seduction, yes – though they usually flocked to him willingly. Comfort, most certainly not.

"Who?" He frowned down at the top of her head, gently stroking her hair with his finger-tips. The thought that she may be interested in any man but he had, as ridiculous as it may sound, never occurred to him; it had for a moment when they had curled up together in that alleyway, accompanied by a brief flash of jealousy, but he had long sense forgotten about that.

Éponine shook her head, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "Monsieur Marius. I found where that pretty, young thing lived, just as he asked me – and then he gave me money! Money!"

"Did you take it?"

"Of course I didn't take it, 'Parnasse!"

Montparnasse scoffed. "Typical. You're an idiot, 'Ponine."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, drawing back to stare him directly in the eye, gaze huge and pain-stricken and furious. "Yes, I am an idiot! To think that anyone so perfect as he could ever love someone like me. Of course he would only have eyes for that little creature, that Lark. Oh, how mightily the tables have turned! I am an annoyance to him, 'Parnasse. He hates me, I see it in his eyes. I love him, and he hates me! I would, too!"

Lip curling slightly into a small snarl, Montparnasse's hand found his cane and extracted the dagger concealed in the handle with nimble fingers. Without thinking, he spun the point of the silver blade around and around on the wood, enjoying the power it gave him when he wielded it, feeling as though it were an extension of himself. "I'll kill him," he growled. "And his whore, the two of them. I'll make him watch. He broke your heart? I'll break his." Glancing down at her, he added like a school teacher scolding a child: "But that doesn't change the fact you shouldn't have been so stupid. Where does love get you? Nowhere!"

"Don't you dare, 'Parnasse," Éponine warned, slowly drawing back further so she was able to lock eyes with him, one hand slipping out from his coat in order to place a calloused finger softly on his full lips the colour of blood. A part of her seemed to close up before she could say anything more, evidently wanting to protect this boy that had won her heart and then tossed it away. "You do that, I'll hunt you down, and I'll kill you, too. Don't think I will? I am my father's daughter."

Montparnasse was silent for a long moment, considering his possible courses of action, before he finally relented under the weight of her gaze and secured the pin back into the false-topped cane. "Kill me for trying to protect you?" he grumbled, eyes flicking back to her and swiping away the finger that still remained on his lips. "You have a strange sense of justice, 'Ponine."

"Says you," she shot back, the hint of a smile forming on her lips for the first time that night. The last of her tears had since dried up.

"I'm not trying to do justice," he reminded her, voice quiet and cold. And yet his heart had thawed the moment he had laid eyes on her. Cold was simply the emotion he resorted to when the last thing he wished was for anyone to think he actually cared for the girl. He had stopped caring. He no longer cared for the birds, or the sun he so rarely saw. Grudgingly, he would admit to himself he cared a little for Patron-Minette. But the last thing he would ever do was say a little piece of his heart had been reserved for Éponine from the moment they have first encountered each other. Slowly, deliberately, he fastened his arm around her waist to draw her ever closer. His eyes were on her the entire time, animalistic, wild, and yet with the tiniest trace of affection. "I'm simply trying to stop you from runnin' around, gettin' your silly, little heart broken by some…" Montparnasse curled his lip, unable to think of a word. "Boy."

'Ponine gazed up at him unflinchingly, not in the least intimidated by the young murderer and thief that most would flee from. "Ah! And you're not goin' to break my heart, eh, 'Parnasse?"

"How can I, if it's in the possession of this _Monsieur Marius?_" He grew ever closer, and still Éponine was unwavering. Ordinarily, he never teased this much. Now, however, he thought it fitting.

"You said you'd carve it from his chest." She matched him step-for-step.

Montparnasse smiled, faces now mere inches apart. He could feel her warm breath on his freezing skin, sending goosebumps racing up and down his neck, grateful for his redingote which concealed it. "And you told me not to rather violently."

"When has that ever stopped you before?"

"You'd be surprised, 'Ponine." Not allowing her any time to think of another smart comment, Montparnasse swooped in and pushed her down gently, her back now pressed against the seat of the bench; too caught up in his brilliant gaze that had lead so many to their doom, she had been unaware of his other hand snaking around behind her. Now, this arm was secured around her shoulders beneath her.

A shaft of moonlight struck her face, glistening on the remnants of moisture that had clung to her cheeks; now she was in light, he in darkness – the way it was supposed to be. She reached up to brush her fingers across his cheek, smiling sadly. "I have only one friend in this world, and you are it," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, as though she were afraid her words would come out cracked. "Why? 'Zelma is my friend, but if she weren't my sister she would leave me. My brother is my friend, but I can't rely on a ten year old. He don't need my burdens. So why, Monsieur 'Parnasse, are you so nice to me?"

His smile faded, replaced by a small frown. He would never tell her the truth – not even he knew it. He could make a sarcastic quip, something about a good deed to save him from Hell; he could shove her away and snap at her for prying. But she deserved more than that. Dropping his gaze, he was silent for a moment, before finally replying, voice just as quiet, "'Cause…" He broke off, pulling his hand out from under her and sitting up, fists resting in his lap in the most self-conscious position he had ever been in. Montparnasse shook his head, letting out a scornful laugh and looking away, gazing at a pine tree cast in shadows and yet not seeing it. "'Cause… Ah, forget it. You're a stupid, delusional little girl that doesn't know me at all. I'm just usin' you like everyone else."

That was the safest option. Lie to her, lie to himself.

When he risked a glance at Éponine, she was smiling, once more sitting upright as well. "Whatever ya say, Monsieur," she chuckled, gently entwining her fingers with his. He snatched his hand away, but far from being deterred she reached out with both hands to tightly cup his fingers.

"It's the truth, 'Ponine," he insisted, irritated. He allowed her to keep his hand for the time being. "Ya think someone like me'd be interested in the likes of you?" Harsh was best. Harsh words would get through to her. So why did it feel like a dagger was being twisted further and further into his flesh every time he opened his mouth?

Despite this, Éponine never lost her smile. "I believe you, don't think I don't!"

"Then would you stop smiling?" he snapped, confused and uncomfortable.

"I can't stop smiling if I'm happy, now, can I?"

"What'dya have to be happy for?"

'Ponine's face finally grew into a calm serenity. She drew her legs up so she could rest on her calf muscles. "'Cause you wouldn't get this angry unless you actually cared 'bout me," she explained triumphantly. "Admit it, 'Parnasse. You'll feel better. Come on, you can do it."

He stared at her in horror, forgetting to appear indifferent, forgetting, even, to sneer. "I'm not lying."

She raised her eyebrows, the spitting image of a simpering brat. They shared something in common: both would go to extraordinary lengths to prove they were right. Heaving a sigh, Éponine squeezed his hand and carefully scooted forward, as though not wanting to startle a wild animal. "Montparnasse," she purred in her sickeningly gravelly voice.

"Éponine Thénardier-alias-Jondrette," he answered stiffly.

'Ponine laughed as though just having heard a hysterical joke. "Spill!" she cried, patting down his twisted collar. "I'm not leaving until you do!"

Finally, he had had enough. Breaking free of her, Montparnasse shot to his feet, desperately wanting to take his dagger in his hands but still somehow incapable of harming her. He wasted no time in storming towards a nearby tree, just a few paces from the bench, before proceeding to stalk circles around the trunk, hands clasped behind his back so he couldn't rip a passer-by to shreds.

"Fine!" he spat, not looking at her. "You drive me insane, little bitch – do you know how dangerous that is? But fine, you've pushed me to the edge of the cliff." His words merged together, so worked-up was he. "Why am I nice to you? You think what I am is nice? You're even more blind than I thought, 'Ponine! I am not nice. Is Lucifer nice? I keep you around because you make me think maybe, just maybe, the whole world isn't evil. Because I'm one notch less miserable when I'm with you. Because…" Here he drew to an abrupt halt, still not looking at her. "Because I hate the way you make me human."

Silence. Silence from him, silence from her. His chest was heaving, shoulder pressed against the trunk of the tree as he shook off his gloves, suddenly feeling as though he had just walked through fire despite the bitingly cold air. He was one heartbeat away from fleeing the scene of this heinous crime, minus his knife and cane, when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Having not heard her approach, Montparnasse tensed and glanced behind him before he could stop himself.

He was met by full, cracked lips that crashed against his, sending him colliding with the tree trunk; twigs stuck into his back, but he was scarcely aware of them. Éponine was having to stand on tip-toes to reach him, one hand still clutching his shoulder whilst the other crawled under his hat to entangle her fingers in his dark locks. Not one to play the helpless victim, 'Parnasse secured his hands around her waist, and in one fell swoop she was the one pinned to the tree. To any onlooker, they looked to be nothing more than a prostitute and a client. But onlookers are blind – blind to what is locked away in hearts and heads.


End file.
